'Elevator' by Michael Pettit

The elevator in my building takes twenty seconds, fifth to lobby. 

*

The doors lumber open and I face the closed face of the guy from upstairs. Today he’s with a girl. He holds a large dish. The lid’s off – a grilled chicken, knees akimbo. I nip in and dodge the door. The lift whirrs. Dinner glistens in a pond of juices. 

The girl is a quirky concoction of pale greys and pinks – bubblegum, salmon, macaroon, milkshake. It’s a frolic, an artwork. She’s sherbet. I’m charmed. 

So I say, "Hello."

"Hi" – birdsong.

"Hi" – grudging grunt. 

His eyes twitch back to the door. We’ve never spoken but I've sensed – as one does – gays don’t fit his boxy elevator. 

Her shoes are confections of sugar, a shimmer of crystalline hairs. She cradles a polystyrene container sheathed in cling-wrap. It twinkles against raspberry fizz.

"And that must be dessert." 

She reads me. Slowly, she widens her eyes and, with a flourish, flips it over to reveal a huge bun-like mound embellished with pink frosting and sprinkles.

"Ah, the perfect accessory."

"I’ve taken to pink."

"Non-alcoholic?"

"Well, you can get tipsy on it. But I never pink and drive." 

We're grinning at each other.

The lift bumps down. Doors amble open.

"Bye," I say.

"Bye." / "Bye." 

One "bye" is rosy cheeked; the other, a bewildered scowl.

*

Twenty seconds well spent. 

 

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Michael Pettit is an artist from Cape Town, a painter with an academic background in Fine Arts. He also writes. His short stories and poems have appeared in The Barcelona Review, Bookends Review, Thin Skin, and in various anthologies: Meniscus, WestWord Prize (3rd Prize), Parracombe Prize, Bournemouth Writing Prize, MTP Competition (Highly Commended), Hammond House Prize (Editor’s International Choice award, and 1st Prize: song lyrics). His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.